


By Jove, I Think He’s Got It (No Wait Never Mind)

by donutsweeper



Category: Without a Clue (1988)
Genre: Gen, Personal Growth, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:21:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28153011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/donutsweeper/pseuds/donutsweeper
Summary: Reginald Kincaid was starting to really embody the role of Sherlock Holmes, although there might still be some tweaks that still needed to be worked out.
Relationships: Reginald "Sherlock Holmes" Kincaid & John Watson
Comments: 8
Kudos: 9
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	By Jove, I Think He’s Got It (No Wait Never Mind)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nary](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nary/gifts).



Reginald Kincaid liked being Sherlock Holmes. He knew he hadn't done the best job in the role when he'd first taken it on; it had been patently obvious that Watson had only put up with him and his less than stellar performance because without him playing the part the man's talents would have been completely ignored and brushed aside. That was, after all, why the persona of the unparalleled detective had been created in the first place.

The case involving Moriarty and the theft of the printing plates had been an eye opening experience for Kincaid. Watson almost died—had been thought to have been murdered—and he had been desperate to try to solve the mystery on his own. It had made him realize not only just how _difficult_ it truly was to work a case when Watson wasn't there, feeding him his lines, but also how much he'd actually wanted to solve it and see justice done.

And he succeeded. Somewhat. Well, he'd figured out the location of the press thanks to the (erroneous, but still valid) "Valley of Death" clue anyway, but what mattered was that after the case was solved Watson had spoken to the press and announced that their collaboration was to continue. Kincaid had been ecstatic, thrilled that his days as Sherlock Holmes had not come to an end, and he vowed to himself that he would do what he could to support Watson in the future or, at least, to try to stop hindering him as much. It was easy enough to let Watson run his experiments and tests without interfering and while he didn't completely stop drinking he no longer did so to excess. Or, to what he considered excess, anyway.

Probably most helpful to Watson was that he began to present the two of them as a united pair to both the constabulary and any potential clients that came to them for help. Watson seemed to rather appreciate it since, as he mentioned once or twice, it made it easier for him to collect the information necessary for a proper investigation and Kincaid soon came to realize that when they were both front and center from the beginning of a case it helped ease people into answering Watson's inquiries themselves and therefore Kincaid no longer had to memorize question after question as he used to have to do earlier. Watson was happier and Kincaid's life was so much simpler. A win-win in his book.

One result of their new method of partnership was that they were solving crimes and closing cases faster than ever. In fact they had become so successful that it seemed like Watson barely had the necessary time that was needed to write them up so they could to be printed in _The Strand._ Kincaid didn't mind the delay in Watson's stories appearing since the press was regularly reporting on their successes and often it was a wonderfully positive and complimentary manner.

The pace should have been exhausting, and it was somewhat, but it was exhilarating as well, especially when Kincaid managed to spot clues before Watson did. It didn't happen often of course but just last month they were investigating a robbery and he'd spotted some footprints and before Watson could say anything about them he'd pointed out that the sole of one had been poorly mended. To be fair, Watson did have to explain the implications behind an expensive shoe not having been taken to an expert cobbler for repair, but that was neither here nor there, Kincaid had been the one to notice the issue in the first place! 

The shoe had somehow—Kincaid hadn't fully paid attention to the specifics—led to a ring of domestic servants, mostly young maids, footmen, and those of similar standing, who had fallen under the tutelage of a modern Fagin-like figure. Apparently they earned a place within his gang by committing some petty thievery of items from the stately manors from which they worked. Originally they'd be tasked to bring him older or seldom worn clothing, cracked crockery, rusted tools, or the like; all things unlikely to be missed. The charismatic gang leader then praised them and made them feel special and worthy, unlike their employers who tended to treat their servants as disposable and easily replaceable nonentities, and offered recompse well above the true worth of whatever it was they had brought him. Once thus ensnared, Watson had carefully explained, he used them to gather information from the manors where they worked or to steal, or plant, incriminating items within them.

That all seemed like a hell of a lot of work for not a lot of gain to Kincaid, but that was neither here nor there.

It had been an easy enough task, for Watson anyway, to identify the vast majority of the lower level gang members and obtain the necessary evidence that would eventually enable the police to arrest them. Unmasking the Fagin himself, however, took a bit more work. 

"We know that he is free enough with money he has to be a man of means," Watson explained as he sorted through the pile of various invitations and missives 'Sherlock Holmes' had received over the last several weeks. "And the wide net he throws for the gathering flotsam and jetsam of societal gossip implies that he is a member of the gentry, if not the aristocracy itself. No mere merchant, let alone a simple criminal, would have enough power behind him to make good on any blackmail that might result from such a collection."

"Of course, obviously. I was just about to point that out myself," Kincaid dryly agreed, teasing the slightest bit of a wry grin out of Watson.

"Aha!" Watson exclaimed, brandishing one of the cards he'd separated from the stack. 

"Aha?"

"Baron Gregory! After an extended stay abroad, he returned about a year ago and has been attempting to ingratiate himself amongst many of London's elite. Ever since that incident at the Royal Gallery he's sent several overly sycophantic letters trying to encourage you, or I should say Sherlock Holmes, to attend one of his parties."

"Wait, does that mean you're not only suggesting I go to a party but actually encouraging it?" Ever since that unfortunate incident with the sherry and Lady Singleton—which had not remotely been his fault, thank you very much—Watson hadn't allowed him anywhere near any event that combined a lengthy portrayal of Holmes and unfettered access to alcohol. 

"I. Well." Watson looked utterly horrified for a moment before resignation took over but then he seemed to consider the thought more deeply. "Yes, but there's many things we'll need to do in preparation for it first; drop a few breadcrumbs if you will."

"Breadcrumbs?"

"Certain articles will have to be planted in the newspapers, a few bits of gossip spoken within hearing of the cabbies, and so on and so forth," he explained with a wave of his hand. "Then once Wiggins is put in place as a hall boy we'll be ready."

"Hall boy? Wiggins? What?"

Watson, already furiously scribbling on the good stationary, didn't reply.

A little over two weeks later Kincaid found himself unceremoniously dragged from their rooms and bundled into a Hansom cab. "What's this?" he asked when a handful of papers were shoved at him.

"Your lines." Watson pursed his lips and huffed before he continued, sounding almost apologetic, "I had to alter the timetable somewhat after Gregory's most recent meeting with Wiggins so we're confronting him at his club in an hour."

Skimming the material Kincaid found it typical for this stage of an investigation: a dozen or so questions he'd have to memorize. Notes over which were to be skipped depending on the suspect's reply. A handful of 'deductions' that needed to be given here and there and two different summation speeches contingent upon whether an arrest was to be made or not.

"After ensuring the Baron grew interested in a specific manor I arranged for most of the staff members that would normally be his targets to be kept busy or stationed briefly out in the countryside. As a result Wiggins was the only one who was approached. He was tasked with stealing an old pair of boots—and given far more for them than they were worth—and then asked to slip two calling cards onto the tray in the entrance hall. The cards could have caused a significant scandal if, according to what I assume was the Baron's plan, they were discovered tomorrow. It could have greatly affected the trading of shares of the….."

Not much interested in business matters that would never affect him, Kincaid tuned out Watson and focused on learning his lines. If he wanted, he could always read the details of the case later after it was written up and it would be more interesting than listening to Watson prattle on now since all the boring bits would be removed before being printed.

In the end it was almost disappointing how quickly Baron Gregory confessed, folding like a house of cards after only the second pointed question. Thankfully, there was a nice crowd at the club and they, at least, appreciated all of Kincaid's hard work that resulted in exposing that the man was actually the true Baron's butler, Horace Randall, rather than the Baron himself.

Feeling rather pleased with himself as a result, Kincaid ad-libbed, "Oh, what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive, eh, Randall?" as the police were taking him away, adding a smug "Shakespeare," and a knowing nod to the crowd who oohed and ahhed in response, just as he'd hoped.

"Sir Walter Scott," Watson hissed at him, jabbing an elbow into his side with enough force that Kincaid had to hide a wince.

"He's here?" Kincaid responded, looking back over the throng of people, trying to figure out which one was Scott.

"No. That quote. It's from the poem 'Marmion' by Sir Walter Scott."

"I'm afraid I have to disagree with you there, Watson; It's not Scott, it's Shakespeare. _Titus Andronicus._ I should know, I was The Clown."

Watson huffed loudly. "Kincaid, in our entire acquaintance, have you ever been correct when I was not?

"Well," he began, but trailed off. "No, I guess not."

"So, there you have it. A Clown you may have been, but no one in that play said anything regarding tangled webs and deceiving."

"Eh, you're probably right."

"Probably right? Probably?" he muttered under his breath as they slowly made their way out of the club. Slowly, because Kincaid stopped every few minutes along the way to shake hands or accept congratulations on solving the case. "I'm always right."

"That you are, my friend." Kincaid patted Watson on the back before pulling him closer so they could pose for the reporters that had been waiting outside. "Ooh, there's a camera. Give us a smile, old boy!"


End file.
